I know: to the trees, but not to us,
Perfection of the life is given, whole.
And on the Earth the sister of the stars
We live in exile, while they do at home.
In latest falls, in sad and empty fields,
The red-brass dawns and amber-clad sunrises
Teach to the hues, dissolved in thinnest films,
These people green and free forever masses.
Moses exists among these oaks, tall,
And Mary, too among the palms for ages
Their souls send to the others quiet calls
With waters, run in darkness, void of edges.
While polishing and brushing stony gems,
And grinding rocks, the springs babble in a chore:
They sing a song, or mourn a broken elm,
Or praise the leaves, which dressed a sycamore.
Oh, if I might be ever blessed to find
The place, where, lost of singing and bewailing,
I would rise silently up to the heaven height
For the millenniums, unending.
